The Wedding according to Apollonia
by Elephanza
Summary: Michael and Apollonia's wedding from the bride's point of view.


**A/N: Hello! Thank you for visiting my story. This is just a little vignette that came to mind when I thought about how Apollonia Vitelli might feel about marrying Michael Corleone. Excuse my mediocre Italian. If anyone is Italian, feel free to correct me, but most of all enjoy the story!**

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"Andiamo!" my mother says. "Get up! You know what day it is." Still half-asleep, I try and think what she is talking about.

Just then, my little cousin Lia bounces into the room. The sun has not even risen; how is she so energetic already? She rushes to me and her little arms envelop me in a hug.

"Nia!" she squeals. She has called me this since she could talk. "I have already gathered flowers!" she shows me a petal-filled basket in her hand.

I rub her back affectionately and suddenly I am reminded of the significance of this day.

My wedding day.

The circumstances leading up to today are things you only hear in stories. But they really happened to me, and I don't know why.

My mother is at my side. She wants me to get up, but Lia does the work for her, pulling at my arm until I rise.

I don't have to do chores today; my one task is to prepare myself to be wed. But how do I prepare for the unknown?

My aunts and cousins help me put on a white dress and veil. It was my mother's and has not touched a body in twenty-two years. She does not help me prepare but pretends to busy herself with other things. She sneaks glances my way and wipes her eyes.

Old Giuseppina fixes my hair. Though aged, her fingers are still nimble from her days as a seamstress. She winds the strands into two elaborate braids.

Someone hands me a mirror, and I see not a girl, but a woman.

"Bellissima! Stupenda!" my family whispers in awe. I do not want to look beautiful on this day. I want it to be normal, not calling attention to the fact that my life is about to change forever.

Old Giuseppina secures my veil. My mother should be doing this, but she hangs back. She is confused, as am I. I wish the veil were long and dark so I could hide.

I am not ashamed to wed Michele Andolini (who calls himself Michele di Corleone). But my family would never choose a man like him on their own. He has given us many fine things and will provide me with a comfortable life. That is all my father wants, and I respect him. So I go along and will become the wife of a powerful American. Anything less would dishonor my family name.

My family accompanies me to the churchyard. My brothers, male cousins, and uncles walk ahead of us while my cousin Angelica is by my side. She was married last spring.

"You are lucky, Apollonia," she tells me yet again. "A rich American has come to our village, and he chose you." She glances back at her own husband, Giovanni, a mason. She thinks he is so ordinary compared to my future husband.

The service is about to begin. Musicians are warming up. People are smiling. I would give anything for ordinary right now.

I think the wedding ceremony passes without fault. But my head is elsewhere. I try not to look at anything in particular: my father's stoic smile, Michele's round, loving eyes, my mother's wet cheeks, the two men with guns that follow Michele everywhere. I try to concentrate on Lia, who is attempting to suppress a smile and fiddling with her small bouquet of white blooms. Will my children be as sweet as she?

Before long the wedding party is beckoned to the doorway of the chapel and told to kneel. Lia stands to my left and we are now the same height. She comforts me more than she knows.

The priest gives a final blessing: padre, figlio, and spirito santo are all here with us. They will protect us and watch over our marriage. So why do we need two ill-mannered men with guns to lead the way?

Michele and I parade through the streets arm in arm. "Ti voglio tanto bene," I whisper, but the words are not meant for him. Lia walks a few steps ahead and I know she hears me. We exchange a glance that speaks many silent words.

Friends and family surrounding us, Michele and I share our first dance. As the music wafts through us, I finally smile for the first time all day. I can be happy dancing, for I know how to dance. We learn to take pleasure in music from an early age. Besides, the men with guns are out of my line of vision.

"Mi piace molto come balli," Michele says. This makes me laugh. Does his wealth make him know my thoughts, too?

I look around at the smiling faces celebrating with us. They join us in food, drink, and dance. Lia leads Tomasso, a young cousin of ours, in a dance. These people have been there throughout my entire life. We are family: we fight, argue, work together. We bless, play, hold each other up. They are my family, not Michele's. Where is his family, I wonder. Who does he have besides his two bodyguards? How is he so wealthy, but so alone?

"Benvenuto in famiglia," I say, and we keep dancing.

Night falls, and we return home. The day was exhausting, and I cannot say a bad thing about it. Everything was perfect, except for maybe those two watchdog men.

I am now married and alone in a room with my husband. Michele slowly closes the door and turns to me. What kind of lover will I be?

He walks over to me and stares into my eyes. Michele is a handsome, thoughtful man, not obnoxious like some others in our village. His mouth is often silent, but his eyes are never so: always bright and dark at the same time, always thinking, always inviting. Our life together will not hold secrets as long as I can see his eyes.

My hair is down, veil, and dress are off. It is just me now in my sottoveste. I should feel vulnerable under his gaze, but I do not. I am ready to bear this responsibility of marrying Michele. Perhaps I will like it. If our children turn out like Lia, I am sure that I will.


End file.
